closer
by vis-et-decus
Summary: Knights of the Old Republic. Revan and Bastila as padawans; and even when the light's down real low, we'll glow.


I can't believe I'll be bright for another  
Glow // Alien Ant Farm

Revan considers himself good at healing. To be frank, Revan considers himself good at everything, and he'd boast in a moment that he's just as good as the Masters in the art of healing - closing up bruises and cuts almost instantaneously without the slightest trace of a scar. He's also smart enough to know if he ever needs healing, he should go to them first.

But there are some things that the Masters just shouldn't know; things that if found out, would cause a scandal large enough to devour a Krayt dragon for breakfast. And at first glance, it seems that way - his friend waiting nervously outside the door, Bastila leaning face-first against the wall with her jaw locked tight to prevent her from making any noise, and his hands steady on her hips as he stared down at her bare back. If anybody got half a good look at them, word would cross from one end to of the galaxy to the other faster than any smuggler's ship.

He'd wanted to use the dormitories where there was comfort, familiarity and some privacy, but no doubt the other Padawans would have a fit. Anywhere else was suicide: there was always a large amount of traffic around the Enclave but today seemed especially busy; they'd had to scavenge out some random backroom that was difficult to locate and twice as hard to force open, but they'd managed. Somehow.

Start tapping your foot if you hear anything, he'd instructed the not-quite-blonde boy who had reluctantly agreed to keep watch. Tap faster if someone's coming and if they're right outside the door, fake heart failure.

His friend assured him there would be no faking, and went to go stand sentry.

And he'd informed Bastila that all of this was quite clearly her fault. Going out by herself and fighting the albino horned kath hound, of all things—

"Did you honestly believe I was going to back down?" No, he hadn't. Truth be told, it was his fault - if teasing her paid credits he'd be wealthier than all the Exchange combined, and he'd decided that today he would make a comment about joining her family on the plains to go scratch her parasites and howl at the stars.

In return, she set out to bring him back a set of horns, just to quiet that sneering mouth for once. And four hours later, after he'd picked the Enclave clean apart and had actually started to worry - worry! - about her, she'd come back with more than just a pair of kath hound horns.

He's already told her it'll sting and if it doesn't, it'll itch like none other or quite possibly do both - this isn't the stuff they put into the tanks, this is raw and untreated and **hurts**; she'd simply gritted her teeth and told him to get on with it. With the pleasantries dispensed, he licks his lips for no apparent reason and steps forward, bracing her body against his. Outside, the tapping has started to pick up, like the quickening of a nervous heart. Smearing the kolto on his fingers, he runs his hands up her back, using her instinctive shudders of pain instead of his sight to locate her wounds. Glancing up briefly, he's startled to see Bastila biting her knuckles bloody, eyes wild like a caged Wookiee.

The kath hound's done a number on her and as he gingerly reaches around, he can feel the telltale welts of claws and teeth on her belly. She's shaking like a malfunctioning droid and as he smears more of the kolto on her skin, she can't help but seize up - Revan is unusually warm, not fever-warm but something that reminds her of her father's embrace, and as he places both hands on her hips again to hold her still she tries to focus on other things. The salt-copper taste of her bloody knuckles. The one shaft of light that falls just so across his face. The rapid tapping outside that sounded like his friend was having a muscle spasm. His calluses - the ridges and bumps of his hands, their unexpected largeness, the texture of his skin, the tight grip he has her hips in as the promised ache and itch crawl up her spine. Revan knows how skittish she is; the only thing he can think to do is hold her tighter and press against her as hard as he can, chest pushed right up against her back. Bastila's quivering so badly if she doesn't scream, it'll be the sound of her skeleton shaking that'll give them away.

And just like that, abruptly - unexpectedly - she calms down. Revan can never figure out why, especially because the tapping sound outside has reached a fever pitch and there is a gruff voice that don't belong to his friend and sounds more like a certain Master Vrook, but she knows. It's partially from the knowledge of what would happen if she rebelled against large adolescent Jedi hands when they wanted her to hold still, but moreso because when she turns to gaze at him, the look of worry and concern she can see in that one strip of light illuminating his eyes is something she's never, ever seen him give anyone else before.

The three spend the next week scrubbing the floors of the Enclave.


End file.
